


The Subversive Potential of Gender Transgression, Or: Goddamnit, Sherlock, Stop Drugging My Drinks

by trashyfiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gender Issues, Genderplay, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Omega!John, Omega!Sherlock, Omegaverse, Porn, genderqueer!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:59:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashyfiction/pseuds/trashyfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a case, Sherlock needs to see if he can make a drug that can override heat suppressants and make an omega go into heat immediately.  He plans to test it on himself but things rarely go according to plan at Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Subversive Potential of Gender Transgression, Or: Goddamnit, Sherlock, Stop Drugging My Drinks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juniperrain](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=juniperrain).



> Written for the Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange for juniperrain, who's prompt was "hot chocolate and biscuits." I hope you like it despite me getting a bit sidetracked by omegaverse gender possibilities!
> 
> A million thanks and kisses from beautiful British men to f-scottfitzhiddles for combing through my bizarre grammar and punctuation to make some sense out of this. Any remaining mistakes and oddnesses can be blamed entirely on me and my stubbornness.  
> Also, thanks and lots of Johnlock lovin' to youcantsaymylastname for what I think came out to around 50 emails back and forth over the last few weeks talking about this fic and teasing out its final form.  
> You have both made this an infinitely better story!
> 
> Also, I should say that the way I describe Sherlock's gender in this fic is only meant to describe his personal experience. By no means am I trying to tell The Genderqueer Narrative. Everyone lives and feels their gender differently and no one story should be taken as the right way or the real way to be a certain gender.

After turning the burner down low to let the pot simmer, Sherlock headed towards the bathroom. He just had time enough for a quick shower before establishing base heart rate, skin temperature, rectal lubrication, et cetera, then finally dosing himself to begin the experiment. He'd have to rush, though—John couldn't arrive before the experiment got underway. He'd misunderstand entirely, launch into a lecture on the dangers of self medication and untested chemicals (as if Sherlock were some bumbling incompetent and not a brilliant chemist), and possibly tell Mycroft that his baby brother was veering towards that relapse he worried about so constantly— _m_ _elodramatically_ , if Sherlock were to be precise about it. The whole scenario would be tiresome, counterproductive, and completely beside the point.

If, on the other hand, Sherlock timed it right, he _might_ be able to talk John into participating. He calculated a fifteen minute window after ingestion before the drug took full effect, causing John to doubt Sherlock's ability to consent. That ought to be enough time to explain his reasoning. In the event that he couldn't convince John, well, Sherlock had both ample resources and practice to pass a pleasurable heat on his own, especially considering it would be so severely truncated. But that was plan B and half a day of sex with John was still infinitely preferable to half a day of vigorous masturbation.

Sherlock stepped into the spray and focused on how to approach his partner. He already had the scientific aspects of the experiment rigorously accounted for, using only materials readily available over the counter, taking heat suppression pills all week, crafting a simply beautiful set of multi-variable spreadsheets to fill with biological data from before, during, and after the course of the drug. If everything went well, he'd be able to text Lestrade by morning with the identity of the serial rapist the Met was after. There were really only two possibilities: the disgruntled chemistry professor with the inferiority complex, fired by his omega department head and only having access to the most basic materials, or the young pharmaceutical company employee with a record of dropped date rape charges a mile long. All that remained now was strategising how best to get John's help for the fun part.

It wasn't sex with Sherlock that John would object to—they'd established that conclusively and repeatedly after the money laundering case three weeks ago—but the prospect of heat and anal penetration, on the other hand, did present a problem. John had, in his own words, “politically rejected all that alpharchic bullshit.” Not that Sherlock had needed “the speech” to know John's opinions on the matter; they were nearly as obvious as his military career. Take the fact that he _had_ a military career, to start with. By itself, that didn't necessarily mean anything; omegas did, on occasion, go to war. But he'd also continued taking heat suppressants religiously since his return, despite popular medical consensus that even omegas choosing long-term suppression should allow themselves to go into heat once every couple of years. John was a lesbian so he clearly didn't keep such a tight reign on his hormones out of fear of unwanted pregnancy. Political reasons, then. That, taken in conjunction with his abysmal relationship with his alpha sister and the fact that he'd sided with the wronged omega wife over his own flesh and blood, gave Sherlock all he needed to know. John saw his own personal life as the battleground for the war against an oppressive alpharchy and, consequently, any sex that bore even a remote aesthetic resemblance to heteronormativity was, to him, a betrayal of the cause.

Sherlock could understand the sentiment and, for his own part, never hesitated to completely lacerate any alpha who looked sideways at the 'pretty omega playing with the grownups'—but he had a hard time grasping why an idiotic and arbitrary gender hierarchy had to limit _their_ sex lives. Neither of them were alphas, so it shouldn't make any difference; their sex wasn't going to be straight no matter what they stuck where.

At least Sherlock wasn't trying to convince John to be the receptive partner. That would be a nightmare all around and, as much as Sherlock loved to occasionally bring his alpha side into sex, John had made quite clear that that would be Not at all Good. John's response to playing the penetrative role himself, though, might be less visceral which could give Sherlock the room he needed to reason with him. If Sherlock could just make him see that the fluidity of the gender dynamics was _already_ subversive.... Failing all else, Sherlock could, of course, simply stick his arse out, rely on the universal appeal of warm, wet, friction, and hope for the best.

He switched off the shower and grabbed a towel for his hair. As soon as the steam started to dissipate, Sherlock's nostrils flared. Oh, _no._ He slung the towel hurriedly around his waist, threw his dressing gown over his shoulders, and dashed into the sitting room to find John curled up on the sofa, contentedly nibbling a biscuit and sipping from a steaming mug. A flush was just starting to creep up his throat.

“John,” Sherlock said flatly. “John, what are you drinking?”

“The hot chocolate Mrs. Hudson brought by. You know, you really shouldn't just leave things on the stove when you go off to the shower. I know it's nice to have it hot and ready when you get out, but it's a fire hazard—especially considering some of the chemicals you leave lying about.”

Sherlock groaned and snatched the mug from his hand. “How much did you drink? Quick, tell me!”

“Calm down, calm down! There's plenty left on the stove!”

Sherlock stared into the nearly empty cup and then hurled it across the room, sending it shattering against the wall just below the hanging cow skull.

“What the hell has got into you!” John stood up and planted his hands on his hips. Then his left hand strayed to tug at his collar and he shifted on his feet. “Sherlock?”

“You weren't meant to drink that.”

“Sherlock, what wasn't I meant to drink?” His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“It was an experiment for a serial rape and murder case Lestrade brought by last week. I had to test the initial premise that a skilled chemist with limited resources could synthesize and stealthily administer a drug that would override heat suppressants and induce immediate short-term heat in a subject.” Sherlock ran through the explanation quickly, all in one breath. “I'd planned to test it on myself,” he added as an afterthought.

John let out a tense laugh. “And then what? Present me with your dripping arse and hope for the best? _Jesus,_ Sherlock.”

“Only as a last ditch effort before resigning myself to twelve hours' solitary wanking. I'd _intended_ to spend the quarter hour before the effects set in laying out a logical argument for why fucking me doesn't have to inherently conflict with your political convictions. Clearly, things got away from me.”

“But it never occurred to you to have this discussion _before_ taking untested, homemade drugs?”

“Of course not. You'd have wanted to stop the whole experiment and I needed the data.”

“Right. Obviously.” John scrubbed a hand across his forehead and shifted again, adjusting his trousers. He let out a shaky breath. “Fifteen minutes, you said?”

“Between ingestion and the point when I thought you'd consider me unable to consent, yes. I think I underestimated the potency, though.” Sherlock took a step closer, touching a finger to John's wrist. “You got home just as I was getting into the shower and immediately helped yourself to the 'hot chocolate.' You've been flushed since I entered the room, you're pupils have dilated over the course of this conversation and your pulse is racing. I could already smell you when I turned off the water.” But what he'd smelled then was nothing like what he was smelling now. Coming out of the bathroom, it had been just a hint. A whiff of want that some part of Sherlock recognized as being vaguely similar to his own scent when it turned rich and he needed to be filled up.

Now, it was like someone had taken John Watson and distilled him, passed his essence through a fine filter of omega sex, and then distilled him again. The result was as different from the smell of Sherlock's heat as it was from an alpha's reek and Sherlock wanted to _drink it_. He wanted to eat John for hours, taste him until he was crying, gagging with it, then fuck him like heat demanded to be fucked, knot him with the vibrating sleeve that sent Sherlock's balls buzzing and felt like part of him.

Instead, he turned abruptly towards his bedroom and called over his shoulder, “I have a range of quality toys I think you'll like and I spent last night installing an external lock on my door just in case you didn't want to participate. I think you should be quite comfortable, considering the circumstances.”

“Oh, _fuck no.”_ Sherlock wasn't even halfway across the room when John grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and yanked him into a kiss.

No, 'kissing' didn't cover it. 'Mauling' would be more accurate because this had _violence._ John sucked Sherlock's bottom lip into his mouth so hard it hurt and forced his tongue past Sherlock's teeth, stretching desperately to reach his soft palate. He bit and gasped and, when he finally pulled back enough to speak, kept their foreheads locked together with a firm grip on Sherlock's hair. “You,” he panted, “are responsible for this royal cock up, and you,” he ground his erection into Sherlock's thigh, “are bloody well _not_ going to leave me to deal with it on my own.”

Sherlock groaned, hips bucking forward of their own accord and causing his towel to slip. His voice came breathless and he squeezed his eyes shut to focus. “This. Is precisely the point at which you'd say hormones. Are rendering you incapable. Of consenting.” He swallowed. “I cannot fuck you.”

“Who said anything about fucking?” The noise bubbling up from John's throat fell somewhere between strained giggle and frustrated moan and he pressed their faces harder together, rubbing his nose against Sherlock's and speaking into his lips. “I figure you still owe me twelve hours' worth of orgasms for getting me into this mess.”

John's words deleted any intention Sherlock might have had of remaining aloof, and he dug his fingers into John's hips and tugged him along as he backed through the kitchen towards the bedroom. His brain blanked of everything but John— _his_ John, _dear_ John, the John on his lips and the John against his flesh, the John he needed to reach into and turn inside out, pull into himself and seal up. And it wasn't about the heat; it was about the sheer _amount_ of John surrounding Sherlock and making him ache _._

They stumbled and knocked into furniture, barking shins and jamming elbows, and couldn't stop worrying at each other's mouths long enough to do more than shift sideways and keep going. By the time they found the bed, Sherlock's towel and dressing gown were gone and John's shirt was untucked and halfway over his head, buttons be damned. John tossed the shirt aside and pushed Sherlock onto the mattress, crawling up to straddle his hips and rock down into him. The rough denim hurt, but Sherlock was hard enough that any friction felt like relief.

“God, god, it's been years since I last went into heat, I'd forgotten...” John twitched his hips again, angling his arse into Sherlock's cock. Sherlock threw his head back and bucked up to meet him.

“Forgotten what?” Sherlock panted.

“How empty it feels, god, it feels _hungry—_ Sherlock, I _want.”_

In an instant, Sherlock had flipped them over and was pulling off John's jeans and rubbing his cock into the the soaked fabric of John's pants, pressing against his hole.

“Fuck, oh fuck, Sherlock, also forgetting why I don't want to do this!”

Sherlock tore himself away and sat on the edge of the bed, breathing hard. He took a moment to calm down, as much as that was possible, and quirked his lip up. “Because the personal is political, remember?”

John exhaled a short laugh. “Right. And begging for it now vindicates every alpha bastard who ever told me all I needed was their knot in my arse. Fuck. Ok. You said something about toys? Because if I don't get something to take the edge off soon, I'll _make_ you violate me.”

Sherlock forced himself to ignore the reel of filth that last sentence set off in his mind and leaned over to pull a small black trunk from under the bed. His tastes in sex aids, like his taste in clothes, music, and crime, ran fine and the contents of the trunk reflected that. Each piece was simple and elegant and the focus was clearly quality rather than quantity. He reached for a large, deep red, pyrex butt plug, but his gaze lingered on the silicon knot sleeve resting in one corner. Sherlock's cock twitched at the sight of it, at how _right_ he knew it would be on him. He could nearly feel it already, like if he reached down now and took himself in hand, he'd be able to touch the swell. But his cock remained slender and smooth and he left the _toy_ where it lay. Just as well. Sex with an alpha, or with someone performing alpha, rather, was the last thing John needed under these circumstances.

Sherlock handed over the plug. “This should help alleviate some of your discomfort. The rounded base is designed to let you rock on it for prostate stimulation.”

John ignored the plug and eyed Sherlock, curiosity momentarily winning out over the urgency of his heat. “That's not about fucking me, is it?” He nodded towards the sleeve and slipped off his pants.

“No. It's,” Sherlock searched for the right word, “for personal use.”

John leaned over and kissed him softly before picking up the plug and handing it back. “Use this on me and tell me about that,” he gestured at the sleeve again. “I don't get it at all, but when do I ever? Take me through it.”

Sherlock's mouth went soft where John had kissed him and the eggshell ice he'd been walking on cracked. He _needed_ this. He needed John to see him like this. Sherlock pressed him back down into the center of the bed and knelt between his legs, pushing the head of the plug against John's slick entrance. He teased John by moving it in little circles without ever actually breaching the ring of muscle. “I wear it sometimes, when I'm alone, when I find myself in alpha space and it becomes crucial for my body to match my mind.”

John canted his hips up, his body begging to be opened. “Alpha space?”

“Mm.” Sherlock dipped the tip of the toy into John's arse briefly and kept teasing. “Mind palace, remember? I am my brain and my brain is organized spatially. Alpha space is taking a different set of corridors.” There was more to it than just the corridors, something muddier that made him walk different paths through his mind on different occasions, but he couldn't find the vocabulary to express it. “Do you want to know what I do? When I've gone alpha?” He pressed the plug in again, deeper this time.

“Yes,” John moaned and his spine curled.

“I get hard as a rock,” Sherlock kept working the plug slowly, pushing further into John's arse after each time he withdrew. “There's something about wearing my knot that makes my cock fill hotter and stiffer than ever.” Sherlock pushed again and the widest part of the plug slipped past John's entrance.

“Oh, god.” John's brows drew together as he clenched around the toy.

Sherlock maintained a hold on the rounded knob that formed the base of the plug, using it to angle the main body of the toy against John's prostate. Dear god, the man was beautiful, writhing into the stimulus like a wanton, lips parted around short exhalations of breath that might as well be whimpers. He gave a twist and _there_ , in the back of John's throat, there was the missing vocalization. Sherlock wrapped his free hand low around the base of his erection, thumb and forefinger squeezing where his knot would be.

His voice, when he continued, came out rough. He'd never actually described the experience of his gender to anyone before and found the process simultaneously nerve-wracking and erotic. “I'm slower, more indulgent about masturbation when I'm like this. Sometimes, I like to watch myself in the mirror as I do it.” John swore, encouraging Sherlock to keep going. “Feeling the swell as I stroke myself, it's... There's nothing like it. I can almost _smell_ the difference, like the state of my mind could somehow change the chemical composition of my pheromones. Ridiculous, fanciful, but _god_ placebo is powerful.”

John fixed his eyes, almost all pupil now, on Sherlock. “Put it on. I want to see.”

“I'll want to fuck you. I already want to fuck you.”

John groaned and bucked on the plug, “Damn it, we'll deal with it, just put the damn thing on!”

Sherlock leaned over to reach into the trunk and grab the sleeve. “Budge up. Lean back against the headboard, knees together.” John rushed to comply as Sherlock pulled the sleeve onto his penis. It was flesh toned, just half a shade darker than Sherlock's natural skin colour, and resembled an elongated, contoured cock ring. The edges tapered off almost paper-thin to fit snugly against Sherlock's skin. In the past, with a condom worn over it, unobservant omegas had mistaken it for the 'real thing.' While the concept of a 'real thing' was frankly idiotic, Sherlock appreciated refinery and precision in his possessions nonetheless. A knot that fit anything less than perfectly would be pointless.

He climbed over John's knees and into his lap, lining their cocks up from tip to testicles. John reacted immediately by rocking forward and crying out as the motion shifted the plug against his prostate at the same time as it pressed Sherlock's knot into his dick. “Oh god, I can feel it, feel you. So good,” John babbled, his head tucked down into his chest.

Sherlock reached between John's legs to slick his hand before giving their lengths a firm stroke and squeezing their glans' together. He rolled his hips, rubbing his knot against the base of John's cock, right where it met his balls. The movement sent a rush of pleasure and want surging through him and, oh god, maybe this wasn't such a good idea, because all he could think about was sinking balls deep into John and the extra shove it would take to force his knot past that tight ring of muscle. Sherlock could take him hard and fast and _own_ every shout, and tomorrow John would take him and it would be perfect and symmetrical and would fly in the face of every moron who didn't understand that it only worked if it went both ways. How could he have John if every piece of him didn't have John?

“Sherlock, god, fuck the politics, I want you inside me, now!” John was grinding his arse back and forth urgently now, taking full advantage of the plug's design to hit his sweet spot over and over again.

Sherlock swore, using every last reserve of willpower not to take John at his word. “Afraid I cannot oblige, doctor,” he panted, “allow me to, hah, distract you. By taking this opportunity to—oh god,” John's hand had joined Sherlock's on their cocks, sliding over Sherlock's knot and up the shaft. “—present my reasoning on the subversive potential of gender transgression and queer _fuck_ ing!” His voice hitched on the expletive as John did something sinful with his fingers and hips.

John sucked in a breath and screwed his eyes shut to concentrate on formulating a coherent sentence. “Lemme get this straight, you want to get my mind off, oh yes, how much I want you to fuck me by explaining, nnnggh, the political merit of fucking me?”

Oh, hell, Sherlock was never going to be able to manage answering John's question, much less outlining a logical argument, if they kept up this pace. He changed tactics, bracing one hand on the headboard and cupping the other at the small of John's back to hold him close, and slowed the movement of his hips to long, thorough strokes. “Oh, the implications are much greater than that, John. But, yes, essentially.”

John let out a groan that was equal parts frustration and appreciation for the change in pace. “Ok, then. Distract me.”

“Right.” Sherlock took a deep breath to collect his thoughts and adjust to the slow build of pleasure after the frenetic race from a moment ago. The fire, the urgency, was still there but tamped down to a luxurious burn that gave him room to think. Sherlock used his grip on John's back to take control of his rocking on the plug, speaking low in his ear. “Your issue, the issue, with alpharchy is that it assumes a limited range of options based on sexual phenotype.” Sherlock licked John's earlobe. “That alphas and omegas are mutually exclusive and natural categories with cemented roles. You are omega bodied, and so you must be nurturing, submissive, and forever in need of the perfect alpha knot. Any other kind of sex must be a poor substitute. Still with me?”

John turned his head to mouth sloppily at the corner of Sherlock's lips before nodding. “Mhmm.”

“Accordingly, only so-called 'real alphas' can adequately satisfy your needs, and a 'real alpha' must constantly, _above all else_ , be driven to knot you and possess you.” Sherlock picked up speed, sliding his cock against John's faster than before and grinding him into the plug, while still maintaining the same long, maddening strokes. “As if something so idiotically one-sided could ever satisfy you. And the idea it could make you belong to anyone, it's offensively stupid.”

“Oh, god.”

“No one could own you like that. No, you're far more complex. You take approaching from multiple angles.” Sherlock bit the corner of John's jaw, just where it met his ear, and whispered hotly, “You need someone who'll take you apart with his tongue in your arse until you're sobbing in the safety of your own bedroom and then go slack-jawed on his knees in the muck of a back alley so you can fuck his face.” Sherlock could feel John's balls pulling up and tightening against his and kept talking. “You need someone who needs you to follow him with a gun to keep from getting himself killed.”

“Fuck, oh, Sherlock, I-” John's lips hung parted, waiting on the unspeakable lodged in his throat.

Sherlock didn't wait. “John, would our hypothetical 'real alpha' talk you into the orgasm of your life while your heat-soaked arse gluts itself on hard glass?”

John groaned, “ _Fuck._ Noo.”

“Would he do it when you're full for the first time in twenty years?”

John shook his head, his mouth full of half-articulated, desperate, little noises.

“Would he ever plot to beg you to fuck him?” More head shaking. “Would he ever do _any_ of this?”

“ _No!_ ”

Sherlock took his hand off the headboard for a moment to squeeze the bottom of his knot and trip the vibration. “I am _not_ our mythical 'real alpha,' but I am usurping his place,” Sherlock felt his orgasm coil in his balls and finally started to snap his hips in short, quick thrusts, ignoring the cramping in his forearm to move John in time on the plug. “And John, how _hard_ am I going to make you come?”

A strangled noise tore itself from John's throat and his hand flew over their cocks as he surrendered his body to the avalanche of Sherlock's fucking because, _god_ , that's what it was and neither of them could survive it much longer. Sherlock's mouth found John's blindly, desperately sucking at his tongue because oh, oh, Sherlock could feel him in his lungs, and there, there, he was, fuck, _they,_ were coming.

Sensory input at once intensified and lost all distinction; Sherlock couldn't tell what he saw from what he heard, or how the taste of John's saliva was at all separate from the heat of his skin, or where physical pleasure ended and emotional catharsis began, but it didn't matter. Each disparate piece of data had become perfectly isomorphic and infinitely significant.

Sherlock came back to himself awkwardly half propped against the headboard and half sprawled over John. He worked an arm down between them to turn off the vibration and carefully tug the sleeve from his softening and over sensitive cock. The lethargy weighing down his limbs and mind was delicious. John grunted, squirming out from under Sherlock and rearranging their bodies into a loose, and much more comfortable cuddle.

After a few minutes' dozing, Sherlock tipped his head toward John and mumbled, “As an attempt at scientific inquiry, this has been a complete and utter failure.”

John shook beside him, laughter starting out silent until he sucked in a breath and gave himself over to giggles. “God, better than the head in the fridge, though.”

“That wasn't a failure. I gained valuable insight into—” Sherlock started, indignant, but John just laughed harder. “Well, anyway, I'll need to repeat the experiment with a stricter control on the parameters if I want to learn anything from it.”

“Oh, I don't know, you got _me_ of all people begging for a knot, that's got to mean something in terms of data.” Sherlock noted the faintest hint of tension underneath the joke.

Sherlock arched a brow at him. “Enjoying the occasional round of anal sex _is_ allowed, you know. While privileging it over all other forms of sexual pleasure is indeed problematic, the act in and of itself is neutral.”

John stayed quiet but, to all appearances, tension had turned to thoughtfulness.

“I do still need to repeat the experiment, though. Would you care to participate?”

His eyes bugged out. “Oh god, and go through more of this? The next few hours are going to kill me as it is, Sherlock! Don't get me wrong, I am enjoying myself more than I thought I would, in fact, I'll probably be ready to go again in a moment, but I don't think—”

Sherlock cut him off. “Don't be absurd, John, _no_. The other way around; like I'd originally intended to do it.” Really, the man could be dense sometimes. Mm, but he also had the most lovely pair of eyebrows and he smelled amazing. Sherlock rolled onto his side and lapped at the sweat drying on John's hairline by his temple. “Say yes. I want to feel as desperate as you sounded a quarter of an hour ago. And I want your cock filling me up when I do.”

John inhaled sharply and turned to capture Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth, murmuring into his mouth. “Tell me more.”

000

By the time the frantic energy of heat had burned itself into full-body exhaustion, John had come upwards of another half a dozen times and Sherlock wasn't far behind. Much later, Sherlock's stomach woke him to watery, London afternoon light filtering through the blinds, his mouth stale with sleep. He glanced at the clock; they'd slept for a solid six hours. Add that to the twelve of sex and intermittent napping and it was a good thing he'd had the foresight to put off picking up the eyes Molly had promised him. They'd have sat on the table and gone off completely, ruining any chance at decent observation. And John would've made a fuss about the smell.

John. Judging by his breathing and the small puddle of drool gluing his face to the pillow, he was still deeply asleep. His eyelids flicked in lazy little jerks. REM sleep, then. Sherlock sighed; waking him from a dream to call in a takeaway would probably be more trouble than it was worth, and Sherlock certainly wasn't going to make the call. There really ought to be a good Chinese that accepted orders via text. Sherlock would probably gain a good five pounds and shut Mrs. Hudson up in the process. Well, lacking that convenience, there was nothing for it. He'd have to make do with what they had in.

Sherlock slung on his blue dressing gown, wrapping it tightly around his ribs against the chill, and padded into the kitchen. The prospects were dismal. Beans. A few eggs. Assorted dry goods requiring a level of preparation well beyond the effort Sherlock was willing to expend. And, ah, yes! Half a package of hot chocolate left over from the experiment. That tin of biscuits ought to be lying around somewhere, too....

John was beginning to fidget his way towards wakefulness when Sherlock nudged the door open with his foot, hands taken up with a loaded tea tray. Sherlock had briefly and sentimentally flirted with the idea of filling two mugs and arranging the biscuits on a plate, but opted for bringing the tin and a single over sized novelty mug. He had a certain level of careless rudeness to maintain or John might start expecting him to conform to all sorts of tedious niceties. Also, considering Sherlock's history with offering John beverages, sharing a cup as a show of trustworthiness wasn't a bad idea. He climbed back into bed, pulling the covers up and balancing the tray on his knees.

“Sherlock?” John mumbled and rubbed at his eyes.

“Mm. How do you feel? Anything that could be a side effect of the drug? Might as well salvage what scientific data we can.”

John sat up, moving to lean against the headboard next to Sherlock. He ran a hand through his hair groggily. “Not that I can tell. Feel like I swam the Channel, though. Everything aches.” John's eyes narrowed at the hot chocolate. “Please don't tell me you think I'm in any shape to be shagging you through a heat right now.”

“God, no. I only made this because you were asleep and couldn't order a takeaway.”

John raised his eyebrows. “And you couldn't be arsed to make the call yourself? Lazy bastard. Genius detective foiled by fatal fear of the telephone.”

Sherlock feigned an affronted look and sipped at the cocoa. “I am perfectly capable of making a phone call, John. I simply prefer to text.”

“Right.” John rolled his eyes. “If I make the call, you'd better eat everything I order you. And don't hog the cocoa.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Subversive Potential of Gender Transgression, Or: Goddamnit, Sherlock, Stop Drugging My Drinks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/873822) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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